Colours
by Kimmy.Tosh
Summary: The soul becomes dyed by the colours of thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Firstly – these little colour snap shots are a result of a challenge from mcj that started with this one (Blue) and then expanded. So, thanks to her for prompting me (and sowing the seed!), her editing help and of course, her continuous support. Secondly (unfortunately!) the rights of these characters do not belong to me. The piece is posted for entertainment only, however notwithstanding the characters and content relating to 'Thunderbirds', the remainder does belong to me. Thirdly – I'm planning to post one of these per day until Friday so enjoy!**

 **BLUE**

Feet drummed against the pavement in rhythm; left then right then left again. Heart pounding, keeping equal time with the beat of the music in his ears but conversely, he inhaled and exhaled steadily; breathing controlled.

Going for a run had been Scott's suggestion.

'Clear your head,' he'd said. 'Get it out of your system'.

There was no way he could have painted or played. The family normally made an effort to be together today. This would be the first year the date would pass without some sort of gathering; some sort of celebration of the years of happy memories she'd given them and the unknown measure of what could have been.

She would have been fifty five.

Virgil had spent his life using colours as descriptions but today he couldn't find the right shade, only able to tell Scott that he was feeling blue. Not a bright vibrant blue but a dull, unfeeling kind. The kind that signals a storm on the horizon; misery and gloom.

Thud. Thud.

Virgil's feet sped up in time with the next track on the device, upping the pace even though his calf muscles were burning; the consequences of dispensing his pent-up emotions on the concrete.

A flash of blue caught his attention and he turned to see a mass of balloons through the trees. Keeping pace, he watched as they rose steadily, faltering in mid-air as some floated away with the wind and others got caught in tree branches or in the grips of an unseen current. He'd noticed a group of people in the park earlier but he hadn't paid it much attention, too caught up in his thoughts.

The pathway curved to the left and he saw a blue ribbon caught in the branches. A blue balloon was attached.

Thud… …. Thud…. … … … … Thud.

He slowed his pace until he stopped and reached out, taking the card at the very end of the ribbon.

"Bodminton Building." It read. "To Daddy, We will always love you. RIP."

Heart still pounding from the exertion, adrenaline still pumping through his system, suddenly it was joined by something else, something hollow and dismal. Virgil carefully unhooked the balloon, read the card once more and then set it free again to travel on its journey. His eyes followed it across the sky line, hovering over the charred remains of the building which undoubtedly took the life it represented.

Virgil had heard about it on the news.

For one hundred and fifty three families, life would never be the same again. It had been a tragedy, there was no doubt. But it had also been preventable.

Hope was the only comfort. Hope that his father's plans got off the ground soon. The designs he'd been discussing only a few weeks ago could have saved the lives of some of those men. He could only dream that one day he would be a part of something which would prevent families experiencing the aching loss he felt, compounded by the date and what he'd just witnessed.

Hope coupled with the very concept it was even possible, helped to alleviate some of that blue feeling. By the time he'd reached his apartment block twenty five minutes later, drenched in sweat and gasping to equal out his breathing, he was feeling a much lighter shade of blue. When he rounded the corner to his door, he was surprised but grateful to find another type of blue loitering in the foyer …

Air Force blue.


	2. Chapter 2

**RED**

February 14th.

Most people see red roses when they think Valentine's Day.

Today, I just see red.

It started at breakfast with Alan's gigantic card. I'm not kidding. It's almost as tall as Scott. He could barely carry it into the room. Whoever knew they even _made_ cards that big. God only knows how he got it here. It certainly puts my standard six inch birthday acknowledgement to shame. Then there was the coy looks and the fluttered eye lashes on both sides. And don't even get me started on the flirting. I mean, are you kidding me?

Most people make babies on Valentine's Day but not my mother. She was a class above and she already had that one in the bag. She actually had me on Valentine's Day. Although, I don't think she planned that one too well as I was more than a little early. The point is, I'm the product of the most purest form of love and I arrived on this planet at the most appropriate time too; the time people make grand gestures towards each other to celebrate their love.

Unfortunately, that means that it clashes with the time that people celebrate another kind of love. A far more important type of love. Their love for _me._

Normally it wouldn't bother me so much but today it cuts deep. Breakfast was overtaken by his big red card, followed by deep red roses and Tin-Tin's equally red blushes. My birthday presents were overshadowed by his gift, wrapped in bright ….. you've guessed it.. … red paper! And finally, my birthday barbecue supper on the beach was outdone by big red balloons and lavish red-tinged flowery candles. Talk about overkill. In fact, if I see any more red today it might just be blood red. Alan's blood. I mean, is he totally dumb or what? If he pulls out a ring, I swear to God, I'll swing for him.

Truth is I can deal with Alan. I'll wait until we're done with the grand gestures and the tacky displays of affection. Then, I'll take him to one side and remind him that red is not my colour. Literally or metaphorically. Alan's one of the few people on this island who knows exactly why, too …

She was my Sub- Lieutenant and her father was our CO. My heart wanted it more than anything but my brain said it would be a bad move if I wanted to make Captain someday. So, we were in the mess one night and she leaned into me and what did I do? …I handled it all wrong, that's what. I put my rank way above any potential relationship. And there's not a day goes by I don't think about it.

We talked and she said she felt the same; we thought maybe once the Hydrofoil testing was done, we'd be redeployed and then maybe we could…..

But we thought wrong.

I regretted it the moment I crawled into my bunk that night and I've regretted it ever since. Never more than after I gave the order to engage full engine capability and test that 'foil to its limits. Maybe if I'd known it would end her life and my career, I'd have thought twice about it.

So, in a day filled with bright, burning passionate red the only thing that I see is dark, crimson red. A symbol of my smouldering anger. Anger for my ruined birthday, anger for the second chance I'll never know but most importantly, anger for my own, ironically red, broken heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**BLACK**

I like black.

In fact, I think it's my favourite colour. I like being surrounded by it. I like the solitude of it and I like the infinity of it.

Now, my brother Gordon, not so much. You see, Gordon is the most animated of all of us. He is the epitome of the life and soul of the party. Gordon's laid back attitude balances my… well, he says, I can be a little highly strung at times. 'Anal' is actually what he says but I think that's a little harsh, you know?

Gordon has this energy in everything he says and does that just makes you want to laugh with him. It's infectious. His passion draws you in and makes you interested. He does that thing with his eyes were they _actually_ twinkle like the stars. I swear that little trick's got him out of a few almighty bawling outs from Father over the years. Usually after one of his practical jokes has gone wrong, or maybe sometimes right.

Infuriating as he was, I don't know how Father ever managed to yell at him without creasing up. Gordon has this ability to smile at you and give some kind of cheeky one-liner and suddenly, you're laughing with him too. I could count on one hand the times I've truly been mad at him. You see, my brother has this amazing aptitude for manipulation. But not in a bad way. Gordon plays a joke on you and you're mad as hell at him, out for revenge but within ten minutes of that jaunty eye-twinkling expression you've agreed to go snorkelling with him and you find you're actually interested in the new colony of sea-guppy-eagle-whatever's he's found.

I like black. It's elegant. I love the way the stars sparkle against it. But to see them sparkle, to understand the brightness and dazzle of light, we must also know darkness and dullness. I understand that. Gordon and I have debated this point many times, so I know he understands it too. He just doesn't like it. There are parts of the ocean that are dark and depressing too, but Gordon doesn't dwell on that. He's all about colour and party and life.

Gordon likes clear seas where you can see for miles, he likes talking and he really likes jokes. Lots of jokes. Lots of noise. Lots of laughter.

Gordon does not like black. He doesn't like the stillness of it or the solitude of it and he definitely wouldn't like the infinity of it. Gordon's the one that can't sit still at the breakfast table. He deals with a hangover by exercising and doesn't understand the concept of a duvet day.

Ironic then, that the last three weeks and five days of his life have been one long duvet day.

I wonder what he's seeing; whether he's seeing anything at all.

That's what worries me sick about all this. Not being able to see that sparkle in his eye. No laughing. No movement. No life. I worry about the stillness but most of all I worry that it might be blackness he sees behind those closed eyes.

I hope that he can hear us talking to him so that he knows he's not in solitude. You see, I like black, it's immeasurable and private and isolated. And I absolutely one hundred percent refuse to believe that it's a precursor to death.


	4. Chapter 4

**GREEN**

"Why's everyone so uptight about it? It's just a colour. Pass that plate, huh?"

Gordon only stopped shovelling pancakes in to his mouth when he realised the plate wasn't forthcoming.

"Gordon, this is important." In contrast to Gordon's manic approach to breakfast, Scott raised his coffee mug to his lips in a controlled motion. "This craft is going to be our heavy duty transporter. It's going to be the brawn of the whole operation."

"It's a colour." Gordon repeated, pointing at the pancakes with more urgency.

"And this is Virgil. Colour is everything." Scott passed the plate. "Blue or grey would camouflage the craft better in the sky."

Gordon was off-hand. "So, paint it grey. The other one's grey, right?"

"The other one?" Scott raised an eyebrow. "You mean my state of the art reconnaissance craft?"

Gordon ignored his brother's mock-offence. "Why can't they all be the same? Most craft in a fleet are the same colours."

"Dad wants them to be identifiable."

"We could have the Insignia on them." Gordon slurped on his juice.

"You're okay with your prize submarine being grey?"

Gordon swallowed, then screwed his face up and said in no uncertain terms: "My sub is going to be yellow."

"What's yellow?" John entered the room, carrying a box.

"Gordon's submarine." Scott reached for the cafetiere and poured a cupful to pass to John before topping up his own. "We're talking about the colour scheme for the transporter."

"I've been thinking about that too." John delved into the box. "Do you guys remember Virgil's sixth birthday?"

Gordon shot John a quizzical look. "Doubtful…. I would've still been in diapers."

"Point taken." John replied patiently. "But I'm sure you've heard the story. Think back to the farm and Grandpa's new investment."

A smile spread across Scott's face. He remembered Virgil's sixth birthday very well. It was the day his grandfather's new John Deere tractor arrived on the farm. Much to the disgruntlement of their grandmother and the disappointment of their parents, Virgil had overlooked a mountain of colourfully wrapped boxes and packages, to spend the day sat on his grandfather's lap putting the new machine through its paces. Despite assurance from Grandpa that the company had delivered it unexpectedly early and that it was a pure coincidence that it had arrived on Virgil's birthday, Grandma had been furious. Virgil, however, had been ecstatic and it was the start of a love affair that would last a lifetime.

"I remember," Scott reminisced.

"Remember this?" John pulled out an old digital photo frame and flicked the switch to reveal a picture of Virgil sat in the cab of a sparkling green John Deere with a grin that every birthday boy should sport. Grandpa was in the edge of the frame, looking a little anxiously at something outside the shot, probably Grandma. The sun was significantly lower in the sky in the next photo, but Virgil still carried a replica grin. The sparkle in his eyes, though, was no longer reflecting in the tractor's paintwork which was now mud spattered and dusty. A third picture completed the loop, taken a few years later with Virgil proudly displaying his John Deere overalls to the camera with a large badge announcing he was eight.

"I was thinking we could paint the transporter green. It would be identifiable in the sky which is what Dad wanted but it'll also blend in on the ground."

"Green," Scott agreed. "It's perfect."

Gordon smirked. "Do John Deere sell paint?"


	5. Chapter 5

**YELLOW**

"Sir, you don't understand. Their culture is very different to yours. These women dedicate their lives to this way of life. You can _not_ send men down there."

"No, _you_ don't understand. Our priority is preserving life …"

"Sir, please. The implications of this…"

"I intend to save their lives, ma'am. That's all there is to it."

The interaction had been short. Not lasting more than thirty seconds. Yet in the numerous times Scott had replayed it since, he'd scrutinised every last detail stretching it out to minutes. Swirling the soft golden amber liquid in his glass his attention turned to the yellow ribbon and the scrap of paper that had come with it. Virgil had found the envelope days later, stuffed down the seats of the passenger hold in Thunderbird Two. It hadn't been addressed to anyone and he'd only shown Scott after the headlines had started:

 _Suicide shame after International Rescue crosses cultural boundaries_.

He fumbled with the note, once crisp and neatly folded but now worn and wrinkled.

He was startled by the clink of glass against glass on the table top alongside him as a tumbler was placed onto it.

"You did the right thing." Jeff spoke as he reached for the whisky bottle, tawny sparkling against the ice in the moonlight.

Scott pulled his lips up at one corner but didn't reply. Non-committal.

"You couldn't have known, Scott." Jeff sipped from the glass and then swirled it a little, ice clinking as he sat down.

"I could've listened." Scott spoke softly, his voice raw from both choking back his anger and the whisky. "I could have sent a chaperone down with Virgil. A female."

"You could have," Jeff acknowledged. "But the time lag would probably have meant that when that second earthquake hit, Virgil and the women would have still been down in that cave."

A quick flash of a memory of exactly what that looked like, and Scott shuddered.

"Our priority is saving lives." Jeff's tone was firm and there was a degree of finality and absolution that Scott didn't feel.

"And my actions did the exact opposite of that. I as good as sentenced those women to death."

"You're not responsible for the society they live in, son." Jeff sipped again at his glass. "You did all that you could to save their lives. You did your job. What have you got there?"

Scott raised the yellow ribbon and note in his hands, passing them over to his father to examine.

"Virgil found it in Two's passenger hold. I think it was the older woman. None of them spoke but she had kind eyes. I thought she understood. I guess it wasn't understanding; more ... realisation."

Jeff didn't interrupt, eyes scanning the paper in his hand. "A yellow ribbon," he mused. "Symbolises vitality, loyalty …"

"Cowardice," Scott added.

"Forgiveness." Jeff countered. "Life."

For the first time Scott met his father's eyes.

"This isn't denouncing you, Scott. This is a sign of their understanding of your situation and of what they had to do."

"Because I condemned them."

"Because you empowered them; you gave them power over their own destiny. You gave them a chance to say their goodbyes. They took their own lives, son." He placed the ribbon and paper on the table and lifted his whiskey glass. "I think this is a symbol of hope and understanding, hope on their part that you'd understand what they had to do to. The greatest respect you can give them is doing just that."


	6. Chapter 6

**GOLD**

" _And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you tonight's guest of honour, Mr Jeff Tracy…"_

I raised my gloved hands to clap exaggeratedly as I watch him take to the stage.

My friend of countless years. A true gentleman. He is by far the most genuine, sincere and honourable person I know. I'm glad he could be here tonight to celebrate the golden anniversary of the Creighton Ward Aid Organisation. A charity my father set up to assist young bereaved children.

It's a subject dear to both of us.

Jeff walks confidently on to the stage, embodying the successful businessman and person he is today. He flattens down the dark suit jacket over the golden cummerbund I chose for him. He is the very epitome of sophistication. Thank goodness I vetoed the idea of the gold suits. I'm still not entirely sure if that wasn't one of Gordon's little jokes.

My eyes stray to the gaggle of Tracy off-spring, sat around one of the immaculately dressed tables close to the stage. All of them are clapping in the same manner as I am, undeniably honoured to be Jeff Tracy's sons.

Jeff is without doubt one of the wealthiest men in the modern world. Yet it takes a keen eye to notice those signs. He is a man of limited extravagance. His position dictates many indulgencies but he allows himself very few. You might not think that when you hear that he lives on a tropical island and flies all these wonderfully luxurious airplanes. But in his heart of hearts I believe Jeff Tracy to be a simple man. The expensive gold watch is at odds to the simple gold band he admits hasn't left his finger since that dreadful day. His cufflinks are gold in colour but conceal a communications and tracking device that he's trialling tonight for Brains. It's actually a revolutionary piece of technology, the smallest yet. In some ways, it's an appropriate representation of what Jeff Tracy symbolises; wealthy on the outside and complicated on the inside. The display of affluence is completely at odds to the very important true purpose.

"Thank you. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward," Jeff raises his hands to clap in my direction and I nod my thanks. "Our hostess for tonight and might I say, a very fine hostess she makes too. Now, as you all know, the Creighton Ward Aid Organisation is a fund very close to my heart and I'm truly honoured to be here tonight helping you raise money to support the fantastic work this charity does for bereaved families. Let me tell you, the work these guys do ….there's no price tag that does that justice."

I risk a glance to the boys and they're sombre now. They know only too well the truth of those words.

"I've always said that one of the basic principles of good management is never to ask someone to do something you weren't prepared to do yourself. With that in mind, I'm going to start the auction rolling by donating a seven-night vacation to Barbados, staying at a five-star resort, fully inclusive." He stops to allow the cheering to die down. "In addition to that, I'm donating one million dollars to the fund."

More cheering and I find myself clapping my gloved hands enthusiastically once more. You see, underneath the plain gold ring, the gold watch, and the flashy gold cufflinks is something much more vital that makes Jeff Tracy the man he is today...

... his gold heart.


End file.
